It’s the Fourth of July, 2023, and I’m stuffed to the brim on carne asada, climbing up the hills of Whittier College to watch la batalla de Los Angeles AKA Independence Day over the L.A. basin.
I had recently moved to Whittier from Highland Park, trading the edge of Eastside gentrification for something quieter, slower—if not sleepier, at least more affordable.
That night, I was hoping for the kind of Americana that really only feels possible in the suburbs of Southern California: folding chairs on front lawns, bottle rockets, the smell of carne asada, and corridos and cumbias bumping under the sounds of “rockets red glare, bombs bursting in air.”
I got some of that. I also got something else.
Up in the hills, a ring of light spun silently over a steep road called Summit Drive. It looked like a Ferris wheel. Or a leftover set piece from Coachella. The house it came from glowed and throbbed above the city like a nightclub trying to sneak into the sky.
It was hard to tell if it was a massive house party that was just beginning or a days-long industrial rave refusing to end.
And look—I get it. I’m not some transplant expecting monastery silence. I grew up in Southeast L.A., bouncing from Compton to Paramount to Downey. Places where on the Fourth of July, the skies lit up like a war zone. Fireworks didn’t wait for nightfall—or even July. If the Dodgers or Lakers won big—especially the World Series or NBA title—it wasn’t just a celebration, it was a full-blown sonic riot. Helicopters. Sirens. Firecrackers echoing off stucco. We didn’t call the cops. We ran outside. We lived in the noise.
So I wasn’t surprised to hear a party, even in the calm of the Whittier hills. But I was surprised by the scale of it. By the machinery. By the way the sound didn’t belong to the neighborhood—it towered over it.
I turned to my wife and said, “What is that? A fair? A circus?” And she replied, “Whatever that is … it’s not normal.”
What neither of us knew, is that we were looking at the beginning of a years-long fight between the residents of that upscale slice of what is perhaps the Eastside’s most conservative suburb and a notorious party house bending all the rules of decorum and breaking a number of legal ones.
Then the rumors came fast and unfiltered. The house wasn’t just throwing parties—it had become a destination for people all around Los Angeles to host ragers that went on and on well past the break of dawn. It left many wondering if—even in the entertainment capital of the world—entertainment can run amok.
Whittier wasn’t always a place for wild mansion parties. The city was founded by Quakers—plain-living folks who believed in quiet, discipline, and community. For decades, Whittier leaned into that identity: churches on every corner, families who’d lived here for generations, a kind of suburban stillness you could feel in the air. It’s also the hometown of Richard Nixon, who attended Whittier College and once ran for student body president there—losing, according to legend, to a popular athlete with better hair.
But the land’s history goes even deeper: Before all that, it belonged to Pío Pico, the last Mexican governor of Alta California, who once owned a 9,000-acre rancho here. His adobe still stands on the edge of town, a reminder that Whittier’s story isn’t just about presidents or parties—it’s about the layers in between.
Over the course of about two years, the house at 14081 Summit Drive—a four-bedroom, five-bathroom mansion perched high above Whittier—became something of a legend. It had sold for $7 million in 2022 to Romero Investments, LLC, and shortly after, began hosting what can only be described as club-level events in a residential zone.
Neighbors reported drone shows, all-night weddings, after-parties that ran until morning, and security guards turning away actual residents at the foot of the hill. The lights could be seen from blocks away. The music could be felt through car windows. One post claimed someone tried to land a helicopter. Another mentioned drone-delivered tacos. Whittier, a city known more for its family-owned panaderías than for influencer culture, had gone full L.A.
For residents of Summit Drive, the battle was personal. Whittier isn’t West Hollywood. It isn’t supposed to be a backdrop for clout-chasing and TikTok after-parties. It’s a place where people mow their own lawns, where abuelitas sit outside in folding chairs, where the biggest drama used to be whether Uptown’s trees would all be replaced.
The city responded with increasing desperation. First came the noise citations. Then the cease-and-desist orders. Then they cut off water and power. But the parties didn’t stop—they adapted. Gas generators roared to life. Water trucks rolled in. The house became a symbol of something bigger: the kind of wealth and tech-enabled bravado that turns neighborhoods into backdrops and homes into content.
But the owners were also, according to the city, renting out the house as a commercial event space in violation of zoning laws and public nuisance ordinances—turning the home into an unlicensed party venue that endangered public safety and disrupted the surrounding neighborhood.
The owners, however, deny operating an illegal business. In court filings and public comments, they argue that the events were private gatherings and that they’ve been unfairly targeted by the city and neighbors, exaggerating the impact. They claim any violations were unintentional and say they’re working toward resolving the dispute.
Early this month, after nearly two years of violations, a judge granted the city’s request to place the house under a receivership. A court-appointed receiver, Mark Adams, was given full control. The legal term is “abatement.” The street version is: the city took the house.
The party’s over. For now. A judge will rule in a few months if they can ban a house from throwing massive parties. In the meantime, Adams is tasked with making sure they don’t have even a loud wine tasting. In other words, if the house parties start again, it will be Adams that’s responsible for breaking the injunction.
I gotta say. I’m torn. I never got an invite to the Whittier Party House but I also kind of liked that it existed. But I also love having a reasonable expectation of peace and quiet. That’s why I left Highland Park. That’s why I live here. And honestly, I get why the people who live on Summit Drive are pissed off about the non-stop parties.
But then again, I don’t know about the city taking over a house.
I don’t know the owners of that house, but I do know how hard people fight to own property in this city. It’s the dream, right? To finally have your own little piece of Southern California sky. So when the city steps in and takes over—no matter how justified—it gives me pause.
Maybe there’s a better way. Maybe the owners could’ve thrown parties at reasonable hours. Maybe the city could’ve fined them, sent cops, applied pressure the old-fashioned way. But receivership? That’s a lot. That’s not just noise enforcement. That’s the system reminding you who really owns what.
I still go back to that hill behind the college sometimes. I look up at Summit Drive. The lights are out now. The music is gone. But I can’t stop thinking about how easily a house can turn into a story—and how fast a story can get away from you.
We live in a metropolis where the line between private life and performance is getting blurrier by the hour. Where people Airbnb their living rooms, live-stream their breakups, and turn backyards into brands.
The Summit House wasn’t the first to try this. It was just the loudest. The boldest. The one that got caught. Because in L.A. County, the party never really ends.
It just waits for the next house or beach or dilapidated warehouse to pop off.
